


Wicked Game

by Frankette



Category: Kill Bill (Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: (not in this case), Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Charles, Canon Disabled Character, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Eventual Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kill Bill - Alternative Universe, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Charles, Sexism, Violence, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankette/pseuds/Frankette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor X is former hit man, and ex member of the formidable Brotherhood of Mutants assassination group. He disappeared, only to be discovered by his former lover, Magneto, during a rehearsal for his wedding day. Executed along with the wedding guests, he falls in to a coma that he would lie in for four years. Upon waking, and fueled with a lawless avidity for revenge, he embarks on his final quest to hunt down those responsible for the killings that happened four years ago. In the end, he will get even with every last one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fickle Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Homophobia.

He’s on his back. The slate beneath is uncomfortable. It’s crippling, but so is the bullet lodged in the base of his spine, so he is willing to compromise with the unforgiving choice of flooring.

This day had had potential to end differently, for instance, he could have been enjoying dinner with his future father-in-law, forty-five minutes from now. Granted, he would have had difficulty understanding his quick-tongued dialect, but that would be no hardship compared to the effort required to ignore Kinross’ utter disdain for his daughter marrying a _jessie_.

He would have gritted his teeth at the sexist slurs made against his fiancé, sneered at the leering glances Kinross would throw at passing women, and refrain from – again – not smashing the drunken man’s head off the polished table.

He knew Kinross’ opinion on him, and that the man despised him. He is a telepath, of course he knows. But Lord Kinross is a disgusting specimen of humanity, so he supposes they have been done him a favour in avoiding another repugnant evening with him; not at all an enjoyable one.

Still, his feelings toward Kinross did not justify slaughtering the man before the eyes of his daughter, even if he was a bastard.

_‘Oh sugar, after calling you effeminate, I’m astonished at your self-control for not killing him yourself. Nevertheless, he got everything he deserved, so think of it as a wedding gift from your doting lover.’_

He tries to breathe through his nose. It’s broken. He rasps out shallow breaths, spittle and blood spraying with each exhale, drippling down the sides of his face. He mustn’t look attractive. His mother would be turning in her grave if she saw her sweet canvas in tatters. He imagined that she would tut at him, her pensive eyes flitting across his face and her mouth in a downturned manner. _Nothing a bit of makeup can’t fix darling, sit still._ He can almost feel the delicate brush strokes on his skin, like an itch that when scratched promises to worsen. _An undercoat of blood_ he thinks, with the blood splatters of others to accentuate his crooked features. Heavens above, she’d have an absolute fit if she saw the mess his hair must be.

_‘Sugar, you have much more pressing matters to address than your vanity.’_

Of course. The matter in hand involves him lying on his back. The profuse bleeding has become torpid, and the cuts on his flesh leak whatever blood is left inside his body. It’s a shame, he thinks, to let his blood go to waste like this, especially when there is a demand in the market for donors. He thinks he should inform the group of his feedback before he bleeds out. It would be a right old pity not to let his assailants know that they have room to improve next time they kill one of their own, and could even make a couple grands worth at the end of it.

_This blood loss is certainly to blame for my rather incoherent thoughts._

_‘I should hope so sugar. Thinking about Sharon at a time like this, and especially with her ghastly cosmetics, I’m almost dreading when your life starts to flash before your eyes.’_

_Oh Emma, I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to let that happen just yet. I refuse to die like this._

_‘That’s a shame, perhaps another time. But for now, you might want to tighten the screws on your shields sugar. You’re flickering like cheap lights on a Christmas tree.’_

Without hesitation, he proceeds to cast out her glacial mind, ensuring to cause her as much discomfort as possible. With his shields reinforced, his audience are none the wiser, and the wonderful Emma will enjoy a chronic headache for the next few hours. With an inward grin, he almost forgets the severity of his situation when a he _feels_ the cheers from his loyal spectator.

Yet the private party too quickly ends, and the aches along his body seem to dissipate as he listens to wet footsteps approach. He holds a pained breath. The showdown is approaching, but the helmet has yet to be adorned. No one is wearing it, so perhaps they have decided to be rational since his speech has been impaired. Thoughtful or not, avoiding a dislocated jaw would have been an even kinder gesture. Nevertheless, helmet or not, he knows it’s _him_ walking towards his broken body.

The footsteps echo his pounding heart. He concludes that in only two scenarios has the approaching man made heart throb in such a way – this not being an arousal of his heart he is familiar with. As the steady tapping of shoes draw closer, so do the squelching sounds underfoot, followed by the tacky peeling of blood. His eyes cross at the audible sensations. He wishes to block out the noises of what he hopes is only blood being stepped on. He wishes it was not the blood of his loved ones and that they could have been somewhere else today; safe from the hellish world that has crawled out from the shadows to claim him.

The first mistake he made that day was manoeuvring a hand on top of his stomach. Footsteps falter. Breaths are held. All is quiet for a brief moment, suddenly filled with unasked questions. A moment of silence, only to be broken when his lungs splutter and he wheezes painfully. As if the time to deliberate has passed do the footsteps continue. _He_ would not have stopped, not when he’scome this far. He squeezes his closed eyes tightly, willing them to open and reveal that this has all been a terrible dream. When he wakes he will be getting married, and after congratulated with fond pats on his back from all but his father-in-law, who will have already drunk himself under the table from pre-service drinking.

The footsteps halt, and the sound of fabric stretching draws back his attention. A flush of trepidation spreads through his body, causing tremors that threaten to rupture his control. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that the man is next to him.

He flinches when there is a touch to his cheek. Silken fabric, expensive no doubt, is stroking across his bruised cheek with delicate precision. Drawing across his skin in smooth motions, the blood is wiped from his skin and stains the fabric he now suspects was a gift. If he is correct, the colour of the handkerchief will not be entirely ruined, and be an improvement to the ridiculous shade of maroon with the owners name inscribed at the corner.

“If you keep your face scrunched up like that, you are going to make yourself bleed more than necessary. Open your eyes and relax for me _liebling_ , _bitte_.”

Counting down from ten to calm his restless heart, he waits until zero to open his eyes. Squinting through bloodshot eyes, he looks up then across to see the man next to him, not by his head, but crouched beside his stomach. It’s strange, he thinks, how less than ten minutes ago this man had spoken softly in congratulating him for his marriage, when in truth he not yet said his vows. _It’s a rehearsal, well ‘dress rehearsal’, but we wanted to get all the mileage out of the dress_ he had said. The calm composure still paints the man’s features from when they had spoken but he knows better than to be fooled; this man is fickle, and beneath his mask his fury is pacing restlessly.

They don’t say anything, only scrutinising each other. He notes that the soiled handkerchief is still in his hand, and looks away to see that the embroidered text is now unintelligible. It makes no difference since he was the one who had purchased the gift, and requested for scripture to read _Erik._ He surprises himself for wanting to curse the blundering idiot for ruining the expensive gift. _Prick_.

Looking back up to _Erik_ , his eyes are no longer on his face and his body is holding his attention. To everyone but his fellow telepath there is nothing out of the ordinary regarding his body. His body has adapted to the lifestyle of a scholar, softening around the edges so he has lost some of his finesse.

Erik folds the handkerchief back neatly in to his palm and slips it away in to his rear trouser pocket. Bringing back his empty, stained hand, Erik moves it towards his limp body. Fingers flex as the hand follows the contours of his stomach, as if itching to touch, and stops when it hovers above his concealed navel. Where his taunt shirt and protruding belly button are masked. Erik turns and looks him in the eye.

_He knows. Oh God, he knows. It’s not possible?! He can’t know._

He does not have time to debate whether he is right or not, when a second touch from Erik confirms his worst fears. The hand drops and his palm firmly presses on his stomach. Erik has closed his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration, and the hand is unmoving on his skin.

The anticipation is unnerving. He wants to know what his intentions are, what exactly he is doing, but he refuses to enter his mind again. He will not go back there. But he has to know if _he knows_.

Erik starts to drum his fingertips, a familiar beat that makes a choked laugh slip through his trembling lips. In another lifetime Erik would sing the lyrics to him. He thinks he can hear the words, and stares at those lips, waiting to hear the words that make his heart ache. He denies the twinge he feels now in his heart is caused by this man. Though in truth he can’t be sure, because the adoration he once felt for this man was so-

His loyal spectator makes their presence known and kicks violently against Erik’s hand. Once, then again to clear any doubt.

The tapping stops, and Erik, Emma and he all are frozen in place. The kicking carries on, oblivious to the unearthly tension it has created amongst the minds present. They all wait for someone to make the first move.

Erik’s reaction has his eyes flashing open and mouth open ajar. His body goes rigid, except for the hand that is being kicked by his blissfully ignorant fan.

Emma squints through her migraine, desperately clinging on to the drama unfolding in front of her.

He is still lying on the floor. His limp hand on his stomach only moving with the kicking.

The second mistake he made that day was allowing himself to feel any emotion for this man. He had ran from Erik for so long, but the emotions he trawled up to the surface had been a painful reminder of the life they could have all had together. All three of them, in an ideal world.

He lowered his shields for Erik, baring himself completely to him. His nine month secret is revealed.

Erik’s breathe hitches as he takes in the sight before him. The man hesitates, taking in the sheer expanse of the swollen stomach, as his fingers glide along the taunt buttons on his shirt. Erik startles him with a question.

_May I?_

Permission. It goes unspoken, as if to protect his secret. Not permission to attend the rehearsal, not to murder his fiancé, but permission to touch his-

_Yes. Unbutton the shirt first, the experience isn’t quite the same._

He can’t speak and it destroys him to respond. He has done what he swore never to do again.

Erik unbuttons his shirt with quick efficiency. He bypasses the flat chest, ignoring the gnarled wounds, then runs a lone fingertip up his stomach to his navel. The air between them fills with a strange contentment, as the rhythmic tapping starts again.

Erik would have loved their child, and trying to take it away makes the punishment that awaits him all the more foreboding.

Seeming satisfied, Erik lingers no more and buttons up the shirt, and rises up to full height. Their eyes connect once more, the tightness back, before Erik turns away and out of his line of sight. Their time together as a family ended before it ever had chance to begin.

“For a second there I thought you had gotten sentimental, Magneto. You almost had me doubting you, what with those gentle touches and sickeningly sweet thoughts, I think you even had your blushing bride convinced.”

There was no reply, but the herding of approaching footsteps has his eyes looking up to the newcomers surrounding him. Excluding Erik, and wherever Emma was loitering, he had forgotten the three other minds present in the bloody chapel.   

He tightened his shields, altering their perceptions of his body. Ethical or not, he had had good reason to hide his secret against these pricks. If they had known the truth earlier they wouldn’t have let him go. Especially the owner of those citric eyes, promises be damned.

She prowls toward him with a feline grace. Eyes boring in to his, her bare feet skim through the gruesome textures beneath. He needn’t feel nauseous at her choice of attire for the occasion, and decides to relish in the idea of Kinross’ insides squelching between her toes and trapping under her nails. Though with regretful flicker of her scaled blue skin, she eradicates any potential of that happening as she steps over him, and smiles a mocking grin that exuberates pure menace.

“Oh Francine, my poor, dear sister, just look at the mess you’ve caused. Now I know you say it’s polite to begin a conversation with pleasantries, but I think we’re already past that and can skip to the next part, yes? Now you don’t have to show and tell; we already know about your relations with _humans_ , but since you’re amongst friends, we think that you owe us some answers. But first let me ask – was what you did worth it? To think that we came here planning to _avenge_ you, and what did we find instead: you getting married, and to some fucking _human_. Tell me sissy, was she worth it? Was _she better_? Because with the evidence in front of me, I find that hard to believe. What I can’t figure out though is if you fucked someone while you were fucking Magneto, or if you whored yourself out once you realised that this _bitch_ wasn’t enough. Either answer I’ll be surprised, because our Magneto is a pretty decent fuck, and knowing your preferences, you’d never turn down anyone so _well-endowed_. So how about it Francine, did you grow tired of your life shagging our fearless leader, or did your tastes change once you batted to the other side but still fancied a bit of cock on the side?”

He wasn’t the only one to flinch whilst his estranged sister berated him. The two that flanked her sides broke character throughout her speech, looking away from his pathetic body on the floor. It’s a small comfort; this entire ordeal is not the only effecting him. With this in mind he opens his mouth, wincing as his lips split, and clears his throat that sends spittle on to his face.

“My name is Charles, _Mystique_. If I can make the effort, so can you. And that _bitch_? Her name is Moira. She is my fiancé, and I love her and there is nothing you can do or say to change that.” He labours before coughing up more blood and his chest convulses. One of his assailants drops beside his head and wipes his mouth, and moves to stroke his hair, smoothing back the slick streaks off his face.

“I’m sorry Charles, I didn’t want this to happen.” the grumbling voice of the group’s youngest member soothes his mind, but its bittersweet as he is still a member that is responsible for what has happened.

“Don’t bother cleaning him up. He’ll be used to choking on worse things than blood, though I never took him as a spitter-”

“ _Mystique_.” – the coerce tone is enough to silence her ramblings – “Listen to me very carefully. If you do not remove yourself from this building after I finish speaking, do not think that I will not hesitate in killing you too. I am about to kill your brother, so do not assume that I will be compassionate towards the soon-to-be remaining Xavier sibling. Emma, remove Mystique and the rest, then leave me alone with Charles. I want to speak with him alone.”

There is a pause before Mystique storms out of the chapel, her feet padding loudly across the wet floor and is joined by the sticky peels of shoes following. The doors shut with an obnoxious creak, leaving the two living mutants alone surrounded by the dead humans.

 “I have read about the weapons that secret agencies have been designing, but I had not realised they had already been despatched to agents. They are good, they could change the future of weaponry design. Imagine wars fought only using plastic; I was not aware that those leaders were capable of making good decisions. This gun has the same functions as a standard gun, but is constructed out of plastic materials only. A plastic barrel to hold plastic bullets, very clever. And you know me Charles – I like a challenge. Tell me, did your wife get much credit after she pitched your idea to her bosses?”

Charles turns towards his voice, seeing that Erik had returned to his side. Erik turns the weapon over in his hands, not bothering to mask his obvious distaste for something he should be able to control. He removes the ammunition and dismantles the gun, and he drops the parts near to where he found the it. Charles tilts his head to watch the pieces clatter on to the floor, next to the unmoving body of his pregnant fiancé. If he had believed in God, his faith would have crumbled when Moira’s body hit the ground.

Erik drops by his side again, looking at his body in an assessing manner. He looks up to Charles and says “I know you have a gun on your waistband, and I would like to remove it. I need to roll you on your side to retrieve it, and I will also try to extract the bullet from your back.”

The final mistake Charles made that day was not fighting against this decision. He instead complies, giving Erik permission to roll him on to his side. He hears Erik curse at the blood, enough on the floor that he should be unconscious. Perhaps it’s a quirk of being a telepath to cling on to life for as long as possible. Charles manages to stay awake as Erik removes the gun from his trousers, but for what’s coming next he’s not sure.

There is a twinge when the bullet first moves, Erik slowly edging it out from his body. A sudden spasm of pain ricochets up his spine, racing through his arms to his fingertips then back down. The pain disappears at the top of his legs. Erik makes a noise of satisfaction when the bullet is removed, but Charles fears this has caused more severe damage. Once again, he breaks his promise.

_Erik, I need you to turn me over and lie me back down. Then I need you to feel my legs._

Charles decides that tense silences with Erik are things he could live without, and gives him a nudge to follow his instructions before another silence engulfs them. He is rolled on to his back and for the first time notices Erik’s face, and decides to pay close attention. His eyes are bloodshot, and salted tear tracks are spilling on to both cheeks. His breathing is harsh and a wave of regret hits Charles all at once, overshadowing his building rage.

‘ _She did this. She did this to you Charles.’_

_Oh Erik, I’m sorry. She did not do this Erik. You did._

Gone is his regret, and Erik is rising to stand above Charles. He does not move to dry his eyes as he inspects and loads Charles’ gun, which only causes more heartbreak to Charles as he watches the man prepare to kill him. He could shut him down, control and command Erik to get him help. Charles could say the word _stop_ and Erik would.

“I know you think you know how I feel in this moment. You are a telepath, and you know everything about me. Or so you think you do. You assume that I am angry, angry that you ran away with our child without telling me of its existence. I know the child belongs to me, and that I am the father. I am not angry that you planned to marry a human, a woman who was also pregnant, and intended to raise our child with her in _their_ society. I am not angry Charles, but I am disappointed. Did you know that I mourned you when you did not return home? I mourned you. I planned to avenge you, and kill the _fotzen_ responsible. That need not be the case when we arrived today.

 I can understand why you did it. The world _we_ live in is poisonous, too ugly for a child. You wanted a better life for it, and I am grateful that you wanted that. I would have wanted that, and yet you denied me the decision to choose my child over my lifestyle. You betrayed me Charles, you betrayed my trust and my love. I will mourn you again _liebling_ , and I will mourn our unborn child.”

Charles can feel his nostrils flare and eyes widen. He can’t stop the sharp inhale, or the sudden stutter as he chokes on the blood swelling in his lungs. Charles tries to speak to Erik but he can’t physically or mentally, as the helmet glides through the air towards Erik’s beckoning hand. He has to try, it’s not too late to save at least one life today.

“Erri –” he rocks his head back in an attempt to clear his airways, but blood gushes and floods his mouth – “pleass-”

“This, Professor X, is a position I have only been in once before. I planned to kill you when you followed your sister when she first joined me, but against my better judgement I let you live. I will be sure not to allow my emotions persuade my judgement this time round.”

He places the helmet on to his head, cocks the gun towards Charles’ face and pulls the trigger.

 

* * *

 

The chapel is still. The air inside remains cloudy as gun powder steadily sinks to the ground, dusting the surfaces of crimson blood pools. The sun has marginally moved, and light is still passing through the stained saints on to the ruined bodies below.

There is no movement, no breathing, or any sign that could indicate life amongst the dead.

Inside a mind, however, thoughts are still circulating on a continuous loop.

_He knew._

_He knew._

_He knew._

_…but how?_

_‘It’s all down to science sugar, I’m surprised you didn’t hypothesis it yourself earlier. You see, the good Saint Moira must have done her homework and enquired help from the midwife, to make sure that the little bundle of joy inside you and her were getting what they needed. A common side effect of pregnancy is Iron deficiency. It was your third trimester, and your intake of iron per day with supplements was approximately 30mg. That’s considerable high, higher than average. So sugar, unfortunately, your stomach was practically singing to daddy-o. Helmet or not, it didn’t make much difference. Meaning, he had his suspicions that someone had a guest taking up residence in their uterus before he entered the building. He wasn’t counting on it being you.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G'morning! G'afternoon! G'evening!  
> Wherever you are, whatever time it is, I just want to say hello and thank you for stopping by! I mean, if you have read what I have written and you've made it all the way to the bottom then I put my hand on my heart and thank you beautiful people for doing so. This thing has been an on/off project, and one I keep coming back to because I'm desperate to make an attempt and write it! I know this idea has potential(?) and I could write it if I put my mind to it, but it's the process of putting pen to paper and starting that makes me pull my bloody hair out!
> 
> I want to first address the fact that this story will not be pretty. I know it won't be, and because of the nature of the films, it will not be for everyone. By this I mean, some x-men characters will have serious personality adjustments made to in order to fit the character profiles from the Kill Bill films. Raven for instance is based on Elle Driver, so I hope you can begin to understand why she would say such abusive things to Charles. Elle despises Beatrix, and so Raven is not going to be a nice Raven. She is a person who has serious insecurities and issues, but I hope to be able to keep everyone at ease by placing warnings at the start of each chapter of what you can expect.
> 
> Charles again is another tricky character, because if you have not guessed already he is a transgender (FTM). The reason for this is 1) Beatrix Kiddo in the films is a women and pregnant, and I did not want to venture anywhere near the whole 'mpreg' scenario, so in order to keep the pregnancy component I decided to make Charles a transgender 2) Making him able to get pregnant will make the story be more in sync with the original films, and because of the films ending, it hopefully will create a somewhat theatrical finale(?). I hope to not offend anyone with this decision, and please let me know if I do so I can make changes and improvements to writing the character correctly. I'm not a transgender - help me to help you!
> 
> I can't say when I will update, since this chapter exploded out of nowhere over the course of a week. I can say that the next three chapters have already been planned, so it's now the difficult task of putting pen to paper. If you spot any mistakes, let me know since I'm editing my writing myself. My mum normally acts as my editor, and she's slightly put out that I've refused her help this time round... need I explain the reasons why I'm reluctant? So for now, cue torn out hair chunks and gallons of dilute juice, and I hope to be back with you very soon :)


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death List Five  
>  ~~The White Queen~~  
>  Tempest  
> Havoc  
> Mystique  
> Magneto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, Character Death.

Five Years Later.

* * *

 

_Good morning California! If you’re still indoors, well- what are you doing?! Get yourself out there, it’s a beautiful sunny day that’s calling all you families outside! It’s going to stay bright all day with glorious high temperatures, so quit your dilly-dallying and grab your sunscreen because it looks like today could be a perfect day. Coming up next is Phil with the traffic reports, and be warned moms and dads – you_ will _be battling your way to get some of that wonderful sun. Now here’s a song everyone can enjoy as you start your journey; it’s been sent in by one of our listeners, and believe me when I say if you need some motivation – turn your speakers up now!_

 

* * *

 

An obnoxious truck rumbles into a peaceful neighbour; it’s an eyesore to the noisy residents hiding behind netted curtains, who glare at the yellow décor and stylishly printed _Pussy Wagon_ on the rear. It doesn’t belong here, and most certainly isn’t owned by anyone from the area, so it’s an oddity to the townsfolk. It’s this knowledge that comes as a strange comfort to the driver and passenger as they peruse the sun scorched roads, searching for a fellow wolf in sheep’s clothes. It’s been almost five years and the imposter in question is due a visit. After all, family should stick together.

Charles is displeased with what he sees. He turns to his companion, lips thin as he quirks a brow in question. _This is the house_ , his associate assures him, but this is not what Charles had been expecting. Children’s toys litter the manicured garden, and a quaint treehouse looms over the pathway towards the house. It’s unsettles Charles when he’s greeted by this humble sight, a torturous depiction of the life he should have had. Ironic, how a woman responsible for his misery could so easily take it for herself and use it as caricature, an ugly one to conceal her monstrous identity.

This will be a perfect day, but not for the Muñoz-Salvadore household.

Charles steps out of the car, his limbs stiff from the journey and ascends the path to the front door. The driveway is vacant as he predicted; the good Dr. Muñoz was called out after receiving an urgent, and rather unusual call regarding patients being attacked by an animal. This leaves his wife at home to accompany her neighbour for their morning run, who would come knocking at the door at aroun-

“Oh! Morning stranger, I didn’t realise she was expecting guests?”

Charles turns to see a beautiful woman smiling at him, equipped with large teeth and talon-inspired nails. He winces at the sight. She bounces on the soles of her feet making her breasts heave inside her push up bra; _an excellent choice_ , if it is of course her wish to induce strain on her back and have tender breasts at the end of her jog. Charles returns her smile and approaches the housewife, extending his hand towards her.

“This is a surprise visit, so I apologise if I’m putting a stop to your plans. My name is Francis Kinross; I’m a close friend of the family and have been for many years, although it has been some time since we last spoke. I was hoping to catch the good doctor but I fear I may have missed him, but I am correct in assuming that his wife is home?” 

She grasps his hand and shakes it, and Charles can’t miss the way her pinkie finger caresses the calloused skin of his hand.

“Yes, Angel told me that Armando had been called away to the hospital, so you’ve just missed him. My husband works with him, so when they’re away we normally go for a run around the estate before the children wake up. Of course, you’re more than welcome to come back to my home, and maybe I can fix you up something nice while you wait? Oh! I haven’t even introduced myself, my name is Jeanette, but you can call me Jeanie.”

Charles, polite as he is, smiles at this lustrous creature and brings his free hand up to his temple.

_Jeanette, as lovely as our meeting has been, you shall not remember this conversation between you and I. In fact, you will not remember my face, my voice, or anything about me. Angel told you over the phone that she was not feeling well, so you did not stop by her house this morning. You will go and do your jog around the estate, and when you return home you shall spend the day with your children, and tell your dear husband all about it when he returns home from the hospital. Also, you will buy yourself some sports bras, because you aren’t doing yourself any favours, love. Now, off you go._

With eyes slightly glassy, Jeanette turns away from Charles and starts her routine jog. He waits until she disappears from sight before turning back to the house, and this time he catches movement from inside. His eyes track the agitated figure moving briskly around the room, one hand clutching a phone while the other wildly gestures.

In this moment Charles becomes breathless. He has been in similar situations before, countless times, coming face to face with an enemy, but this is different. This is personal, and this is an enemy he has waited a long time to see.

As the figure disappears further into the house, Charles snaps back into his mind own. He counts down from ten to calm his pounding heart, each step towards the front door matching five or more acratic beats. He steps up to the door, combs back his hair and presses the chiming doorbell.

He can hear her footsteps approaching the door. Her skips in-sync with his pulse. She calls out, but he doesn’t hear her words. She twists the key, turns the locks, and opens the door.

_This Pasadena home is owned by Dr. Armando Muñoz, who lives with his stay at home wife, Angel Salvadore. I briefly met the good doctor some years ago when he was romantically attached to an acquaintance of mine, but broke off the relationship after hearing of their involvement in a tragic incident. Unbeknown to him, his wife also played her part in the same tragic incident. She is also a former acquaintance of mine. Back then she knew me as Professor X. Her, Tempest._

“Jeanie, you will never believe who called agai-”

There’s a freak pause between the two assassins. Their eyes lock for the first time in five years. The last time Tempest saw Professor X he was a blooded ruin, shot in the head by their leader and left for dead in the Scottish chapel. Her words choke in her throat as she looks her comrade in the face, unscathed but now etched with lines and dark circles under his eyes. She doesn’t know what he’s done to come this far, but she knows that this is not the same man she left behind.

She reacts fast, but Charles is quicker.

He barges through the open door; the momentum sends her reeling backwards.

He enters the house.

Tempest regains her balance and opens her mouth, preparing to attack the intruder with her mutation. Charles lunges at her, his fist connecting with her face. There’s a distinct crack, it could be his hand or her jaw, and blood splatters from her mouth. Her neck twists from the impact. He strikes again with his other fist, and she stumbles further. Another crack, more blood. Charles advances, his torso twisting as he drives his fist towards her face. She blocks his attack, ducks at the next, and fires back with a round kick that she lands squarely on his chest. It’s his turn to stumble, only she’s crouching and tries to sweep his feet from under him. He leaps, avoiding her trick, and propels himself into the air. He twists his body, copying her move and kicks her blooded face. She cries out and collapses, her head crashing on to the solid flooring beneath. Charles stands over her body and draws his fist back, aiming to strike her face again.

Only this time she is quicker. She opens her mouth and spits.

His reaction is delayed and Charles is hit on his shoulder by smouldering acid that burns his skin. He falls off her body and clutches at his crisping shoulder, the pain more excruciating than he could have imagined. The acid seeps through his clothes and spreads across his skin, and his nostrils fill with the acrid scent of his burning flesh. It burns, the fire spreading through his body and tears spill from his eyes.

Tempest rises to her feet and watches her comrade writhe on the floor, his eyes unfocused as he cradles his shoulder. The tattoo that marries her skin peels off at her command, and a set of wings replaces the ink. She flies into the next room. Charles wills himself to stand, propelling himself on to his feet and charges after his target.

He doesn’t travel far before he’s knocked off balance, staggering under the weight of his attacker on his back. He swings his body to shake her off, almost missing the glint of silver that’s driving down towards his neck. He grasps her arm tightly to his body and flings himself against a wall, crushing her and grabbles for the knife hanging limply in her hand. She takes advantage of his distracted mind and brings her legs up to her chest, nudging them behind Charles’ back and kicks him away to free herself. She watches him stumble forward and drives the butt of her knife down on to Charles’ bent knee.

He cries out, eyes bulging and doubles over on to his knees. She wraps her arm around his neck and pulls it tight with her other hand, constricting his breathing, and silently hopes for this to be over quickly.

Charles’ claws at her arms, flaying his own in an attempt to throw her off him. He collapses under her weight.

Black spots start to cloud his vision, and his slowing heart distorts the assassins laboured breathing. He desperately looks around for something he can implement as a weapon, anything to get her off his back. It’s then he notices the forgotten butchers knife inches away from his face.

Charles shuffles their bodies forward, eyes watering and pulsing red from her tightened grip, and thrusts out his hand. His fingertips brush the silver edge of the blade, and he taps it to spin the handle into his palm. Charles doesn’t hesitate, and throws the knife backwards into Tempest’s wing.

He scrambles to his feet as she takes the blade out of her wing; a tear obvious in the fragile structure. It doesn’t stop her from levitating and she flies in Charles’ direction, knife in hand.

He ducks to avoid a knife being thrust at him, dodging left, right, staggering as she closes in on him. Charles falls backwards onto the family dining table, and Tempest rises above him with the knife poised. She dives, but Charles rolls off the table, and the knife sinks into the wooden surface.

Charles leaps on to his feet and overturns the table. Tempest, having landed on the hard surface, is thrown to the ground. Charles pursues her, hurdling the table and wrenches the knife from the table. The two bodies collide, kicks and punches dealt, as they struggle for the weapon. Charles manages to thrust his elbow and land a blow on his opponent’s windpipe. He straddles her chest, raises the knife, and drives down to stab her wing. He pulls out his own dagger strapped to his ankle and stabs the other wing, pinning her down to the ground.

Charles pants heavily as he watches Tempest thrash beneath him. When she tries to throw him off he retrieves the knives and drives them down, slicing the wings again and again. Her screams are silent, and tears stream from her eyes as she blindly strikes at him. Charles knows he has the advantage; he can kill her right now if he pleases, and so takes a moment to enjoy watching her pain stricken face. The adrenaline thrumming through his veins makes this moment all the more pleasurable, and he can’t mask the smile that spreads across his blooded face.

He watches her heaving chest and back his dagger, her wheezing breaths reminiscent of his own from a lifetime ago. Charles raises the dagger, looks his target in the eyes and positions the blade above her heart. He counts down from ten to calm his own erratic heart. He has come a long way to etch her name from existence.

Mid-strike they hear it; light footsteps descend the stairs and echo throughout the house. Both assassins hold their breaths as the footsteps approach the scene, their eyes locked as the newcomer pauses and takes in the scene of destruction.

_Please_.

Her lips are unmoving but her mind is pleading, and Charles watches her attempt to shake her head. He understands her request and he forced to make the decision that threatens his entire mission. He retracts his dagger, conceals it, and disposes of the knife still embedded inside Angel’s wing before helping her up on to her feet. They dust themselves off, and Charles catches Angel’s eye with a look that promises a continuance. The footsteps halt in the doorway and Charles is confronted with his comrade’s attempt at redemption.

Kara Muñoz-Salvadore is her father’s daughter; her eyes are intense as they survey the room, dark and calculating, and Charles finds himself questioning her age. Her hair quickly dispels the illusion of maturity; a combination of sweet afro puffs and bedhead along with butterfly patterned pyjamas. A small crease forms at her brow as she looks at her mother.

“Mommy, what happened to you and eating room?” Kara moves to take a step into the chaos.

“Baby, you can’t come in here. There’s broken glass and broken furniture, and you could hurt yourself if you touch anything. And-” Angel glances over at Charles who shrugs his shoulders. “that good for nothing dog of yours came in here and acted a damn fool, that’s what happened.”

_Bullshit_ , Charles fires at Angel, _she’ll never believe you._

“Havoc did this?” Kara’s eyes widen and she looks around the room, marvelling at the extent of her beloved dog’s destruction. Thankfully she misses the sharp look that Charles shoots Angel, his lips parting in shock.

“I guess it’s in his nature to wreak havoc, just like your daddy says. Now baby, where are your slippers? What have I told you about coming down first thing in bare feet? Go back up and go put them on but stay upstairs baby, me and mommy’s friend have got to clean up this damn mess, so don’t come down until I say so.”

It’s only then does Kara turn her attention to Charles, giving him the same pensive stare. He doesn’t have to read her mind when she looks between the two adults that she wants to know who he is, and why this mysterious man is in their house.

“This is an old friend of mommy’s I ain’t seen in a long time, and he’s a mutant like us.”

“Hello sweetheart, I’m Charles. What’s your name?”

When her daughter doesn’t respond, Angel reluctantly answers for her.

“Her name is Kara.”

“Kara… such a pretty name for such a pretty girl. Tell me, how old are you Kara?” He can’t mask how his voice quivers.

Kara remains silent and simply stares at the now named man. Anxious to get her out of harm’s way, Angel clears her throat and captures Kara’s attention.

“Kara, Charles asked you a question.”

Kara pauses, before timidly answering. “I’m four.”

Now it’s Charles who clears his throat.

“Four years old, aye. You want to know something Kara, I once had a child of my own and they’d be about five years old now. It would have been nice if you had met them and played together, and maybe even have been friends.” Charles slowly turns away from the little girl to look at the woman responsible for this possibility never becoming a reality, his vision tinging red with reignited vengeance.

“But I guess it was not meant to be.” Angel is the first to look away and approach her daughter, resting a hand on her shoulder and turning her towards the doorway.

“Baby, me and mommy’s friend have some grownup talk to talk about, so I want you to go upstairs and stay there until I tell you to, okay?” Her voice stern, but Kara tries to peak over her shoulder to look at Charles.

Angel snaps her fingers. “Kara – go to your room – now.”

With a quiet grumble the little girl walks out of the room, and it’s not until her bedroom door closes do the assassins release the breath they’d been holding. Angel looks at Charles with an arched brow and her palms raised and facing upwards, with a simple peace offering. “Can I get you a coffee, or I have tea if you want?”

He can’t help but chuckle at the sentiment, “A coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

As she leaves the room Charles takes in the mess left behind, and it’s as though a tornado has passed through the house. Ornaments and picture frames lay smashed from the struggle, and chairs scattered from when he overturned the table. He takes a moment to stand it back up and touches the knife mark with the tips of his fingers. It could have been him dealt with the fatal blow, but today is not his day. He follows Angel through to the kitchen.

Angel Salvadore, or Tempest as he previously knew her, hasn’t aged significantly since their last encounter. Her hair was long and layered, with some shorter lengths flicked out but now has a cropped, and more manageable style that softens her once harsh face. She too has dark circles under eyes, more so from the stress of raising a child and has crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She seems thinner to, Charles notes, and is probably why she hadn’t fought back as strongly as she has done in the past. She potters about and retrieves two mugs, “You still take milk and sugar, right?” “Yes, but just a splash.” and grabs milk, sugar, and coffee and finally flicks the kettle on. She takes two towels from a drawer and runs them under the tap, and sets one next to Charles and with the other dabs gently at her face. He nods his thanks.

“Were you expecting me?”

Angel’s movements slow, and she eventually drops the towel on the counter behind to her.

“Yes, and no. He got in contact with me after you woke up, and then again after your little episode in Japan. I ain’t ever believed that I would open my door and find your pale ass on the other side of it, so I guess you have your answer.” she pauses and throws caution to the wind with her next question. “So I guess it’s too late for an apology?”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Even if I was sincere?”

“Oh I don’t doubt for a moment that you aren’t sincere. I’m positive that you’re very, very sorry, love.”

Angel, who had begun to make their coffees, slams down the spoon in her hand and gives Charles a pointed glare.

“Look, bitch, I need to know if you’re going to start any shit around my baby girl.”

“Relax, I’m not going to murder you before the eyes of your child.”

She’s not convinced, but nonetheless hands him a cup of coffee and proceeds to take a sip of her own.

“Erik led me to believe that you weren’t capable of being rational.”

Charles doesn’t flinch at hearing the name.

“When it comes to Erik and I, and him claiming to knowing everything there is to know about me, I think we can both safely assume that it’s simply not the case. Likewise, he is still continuing to surprise me. It’s mercy, compassion, and forgiveness that I lack, not rationality as he led you to believe.”

Charles takes a sip of his own drink and gives her a level look.

“And he’s not the only person who continues to surprise me. Havoc, it’s a cute name. Tell me, is he still in contact with Darwin or am I right in assuming that your husband is still in love with Alex, regardless of knowing what he’s done?”

It’s her turn to flinch.

“The prick had the nerve to call up, and still does, and one time it’s Kara who answers the phone. He panicked when she asked for his name, so you can guess what the dumb fuck said his was. She thought it was cute, and when Armando comes home with a puppy she says “Let’s call him Havoc daddy, because I met someone with that name”. He didn’t even resist and said yes, so I have a strict rule that the animal doesn’t step foot inside the house. That includes the dog.”

Charles doesn’t bother to hide his smirk, murmuring _touché_ into his mug as he takes another sip.

“You spoke to him before you answered the door?”

“Yes, and I explicitly said that if he calls again that I’d hunt his white ass down and shoot him where he stands. But you’ll be interested to know that he called up asking if I’d seen you, or was prepared at least. I said “If he comes, he comes”, and then he starts sprouting a load of bullshit about me not being responsible and not thinking about my family. I told the prick to go fuck himself, because I love my family more than he could have ever loved Armando. He doesn’t deserve him, and in truthiness neither do I, but he’s my husband and I ain’t gonna let him fuck up what we have.”

Charles watches Angel closely for a few moments, repeating her words over in his head again before responding with “Darwin doesn’t know that you were involved, does he.”.

Her eyes widen slightly and that’s enough confirmation for Charles.

“You’re telling me, and correct me if I’m wrong, is that Darwin left Alex because of his involvement in Scotland, and after you found this out you lied to him, because let’s face it, if Darwin knew you were there then you’d never get your chance to be with him. And so because you lied to him, and him thinking that you were on the other side of the planet, you two sailed off into the sunset together and lived happily ever after. Is that what you’re telling me, that you’ve not only deluded Darwin into believing your convening bullshit, but yourself too?”

“Look, if I could go back in a time machine and undo all the things that I did I would, but I can’t, and all I can say for myself is that I’m a different person now.”

Charles sneers at her words and leans back against the counter.

“That’s splendid, but sadly I don’t give a fuck.”

“Be that as it may, I know I don’t deserve your mercy or forgiveness. However, I beseech you to reconsider on behalf of my daughter.” Angel had stepped away to retrieve a photograph of her daughter, smiling into the camera, and now holds it before Charles. He’s not sure who he wants to kill more, the cunt in front of him or the little girl smiling at him.

“Bitch, you can stop right there.” Angel flinches at his tone and her hand drops down by her side.

 “Just because I have no wish to murder you before the eyes of your daughter, and you know well enough that I am at my leisure to do so, does not mean that parading her around in front of me is going to inspire sympathy. You and I have unfinished business, and not a goddamn fucking thing you’ve done in the subsequent five years – including getting knocked up – is going to change that.”

If he wasn’t seeing red before he is now, and Charles has to restrain himself from smashing his mug into Angel’s skull and slitting her throat with the broken shards. _All in good time_ , he mediates.

“You have every right to wanna get even–” Charles cold laugh interrupts Angel’s plea.

“Get even, even Stevens? You really have no idea, do you? If I wanted to get even with you I would have to kill you, go up to Kara’s room and kill her, and then wait for the good Dr. Muñoz to return home and kill him. If that had been my plan then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, and we would have gotten pretty even. In fact, we’d be about square.”

There’s a pause between the two killers, long enough for Charles to almost finish his coffee but he waits for Angel to choose her next words carefully. They both know that blood will be split, and that only one of them will be left standing.

“When do we do this?” Angel asks after digesting Charles’ words. Unlike her, he doesn’t need to mull over his answer.

“Well that depends, love… When do you want to die? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? I’m a very patient man, Angel, but I’m only willing to wait for so long.”

“How about tonight, bitch?” She fires back.

“Splendid. Where?”

“There’s a track and field where the little leagues practise on weekends, about a mile from here. We meet at around two-thirty in the morning, head to toe in black, and we have ourselves a knife fight. No mutations, we just use the blade we carry. We won’t be bothered.”

Charles nods in agreement and finishes off his coffee, but declines when offered a second cup by Angel. She shrugs and reheats the remaining water in the kettle.

“I should really get this place cleaned up, so when you’re done just leave your cup near the sink. Kara needs her breakfast; could you grab the cereal from the far cupboard? Bowls are in the cupboard second on the left, spoons in the first drawer.”

Charles isn’t in an immediate rush to leave and starts preparing the little girl’s breakfast, noting that she eats a cereal named Kaboom and has butterfly cutlery to match her pyjamas. He can hear Angel rearranging up the dining room chairs and looks over to see her hiding the knife mark with a vase.

“Erik always said you were one of the best ladies he’d ever seen with an edged weapon. High praise, coming from someone who’s overtly anal when it comes to any type of steel blade.”

Angel snorts and moves back into the kitchen, taking the kettle and starts making her second cup of coffee.

“Fuck you, bitch, I know that your pale ass can’t hold a blade, no less use one, so you can kiss my motherfucking ass, Professor X.”

It’s Charles who lets out a quiet laugh, handing Kara’s cereal bowl to Angel.

“Weapon of choice? If you want to stick with your butcher knife, that’s fine by me, love. I’m sure Erik will be most pleased to hear you’ve maintained a repertoire of kitchen skills.”

Her eye twitches as she takes the bowl from Charles’ hand.

“Very funny, bitch. Very funny!”

At this Tempest pulls a shard of glass from her waistband and thrusts it towards Charles’ neck. He’s still got hold of the bowl and flings it at her face, disorientating her, and crouches to avoid her next jab. He rolls across the floor, reaching for his dagger, and leaps up back on to his feet. He narrowly misses the acid ball she spits at him. Charles twists back to face her, power transcending through his arm and the momentum sends the dagger into the centre of her chest.

She doesn’t gasp, or react in any dramatic manner that Charles has witnessed during his eclectic past. Her face slackens but her body becomes rigid as she slides down the kitchen counters on to the floor. Charles still has his arm extended from where he released his dagger, panting as he watches blood seep out through her exercise top. Angel maintains eye contain for a split second before heaving out a final breath and dying on the milk splattered kitchen floor.

It’s silent in the Muñoz household. Charles’ breathing echoes quietly as he looks at the dead body of his enemy. He doesn’t feel anything in this moment, different to when he killed the White Queen. But he can’t deny feeling a slither of relief for surviving another showdown with a member of the Brotherhood of Mutants assassination group. He approaches the body, Kaboom cereal crunching under his feet as he takes back his knife. The body twitches as more blood spills out of the wound.

Charles rises back up, oblivious to the watchful eyes standing in the doorway. He goes to clean his weapon when he notices Kara in his peripheral vision, swinging round to come face to face with the witness of his crime. She’s staring at him in the same manner that she had earlier, and Charles can’t help but wonder if she knew that it was his intention to kill her mother from the very start. After all, she is her father’s daughter.

He needs to get out of the house, he’s already overstayed his visit. He averts his eyes from his audience and briskly cleans his blade with the still damp towel he’d left on the counter.

“It’s not my intention to do this in front of you, and for that I’m sorry. But you can take my word for it, your mother had it coming.” Charles can’t help the last few words coming out darkly as he peaks over his shoulder and sees the little girl staring at her dead mother. He slips his dagger back into the holster attached to his ankle and more cereal crunches as he turns to face Kara, and the most he can offer her is a mournful smile and a promise.

“When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I’ll be waiting.”

Without ceremony, Charles swiftly moves past the girl and heads towards the front door, leaving behind a motherless child for her father to discover. He swings open the door and strolls out, walking past the lifeless toys that had threatened to dissuade him from the start. His associate is still waiting, most likely twiddling his thumbs nervously, sat inside the offensive yellow pickup truck. Upon seeing Charles, he hurries out to open the door and helps him into the car. The nervous man starts to ramble about the state of Charles; the blood on his face, his burnt shoulder and the infections that could already be spreading, and asks whether he was successful.

For the first time today a genuine smile breaks on to Charles’ face, and he turns to share this with his associate. He straps himself in and rests his hands on his knees.

“Hank, my dear friend, you would have known if I hadn’t been successful because you would have found a letter open lodged between your eyes approximately, give or take, ten minutes ago.”

He laughs as his associate, Edinburgh junior doctor, Hank McCoy, turns a disconcerting shade of white. He claps him on the shoulder and nods his head towards the road ahead.

“Now, how about you drive us back to the hotel, and after I sort myself out I’ll treat us to a lovely meal somewhere, and I’ll even let you pick the place. How does that sound?”

Hank starts up the truck and nods as he pulls away from the Pasadena home, looking just as relieved to leave as Charles feels.

“Sure, that sounds like the best idea you’ve had so far during this whole ordeal.”

“You’re not wrong there Hank, not wrong at all.”

The residents who had glared at the invasive truck were finally able to breathe a sigh of relief as it departed the neighbourhood, but less so happy to see the back end of the _Pussy Wagon_ as it cruised away in to the dust it blew up into the scorching Californian air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G'morning! G'afternoon! G'evening!  
> Um... it's almost been a year since I first posted a chapter for this story, and if I'm completely honest I don't have a good enough excuse for not updating sooner. Nonetheless, I've whacked out a chapter that I made a start on last year within the last few days, so if it's disjointed then you have some idea why. If you do find any hiccups let me know, otherwise I hope you enjoy reading this wonderful violent chapter. It's also my first attempt at writing a fight scene, so I beseech you to be gentle! And if you have watched the movie then you'll undoubtedly notice that I've pinched some of the dialogue, more so as a basis for following the original plot. Again, happy readings, and as I've planned the next chapter I promise to not keep you folks waiting wait until next year for the next update :)


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